The Love and Musings of Dave Strider
by fruiTmajik
Summary: It's not like it's bad or anything. He just doesn't know how to cope, you know? He can't stand the idea of... well, what could happen. Hammertime oneshot, essentially a bunch of Dave ranting. T for swearing.


Maybe the way you feel is a lot of things, you think to yourself. A lot of smaller reasons, all rolled together and snowballed up until you have this solid hunk of ice, you know? Because that's a lot like what loving John Egbert is like.

By that, you mean you love him from a distance, of course. No, there is no way in HELL you're about to go looking in those pretty blue eyes and their long dark lashes with that confession, not when you could get caught. You're not gonna write all kinds of sicknasty (and by sicknasty, in this case, you totally mean unironic as shit and lame) rhymes down for him. You're not going to give some earth-shattering, call-down-the-fucking-moon speech about your undying gratitude to every particle of air to ever make it in his lungs. Nope. That would be stupid, and he'd just laugh at you, because let's face it: you're pathetic. No flowers, no picnics, no shitty starlit walks through the motherfucking park.

So Jesus, why are you so close to doing the exact opposite of that? And by the way, dumbass, "exact opposite" means you are _this close _to unironically serenading that dude through the night while you shower him with all kinds of mushy shit and affection and flowers, then proceed to make out with him for forever.

The guy totally doesn't appreciate irony at any level. In fact, you've suspected that he doesn't understand it, either, not even at the mundane level of sincere irony that your English teacher might talk about, and you might scoff at in return.

But anyways, he's really honest, straightforward, and sincere. You won't admit it, but that's kinda nice after a while with all this fuckery. He's oblivious beyond all belief, but that's part of his charm. He doesn't notice the little things. At least, you don't think he does. He doesn't say anything about them to you. You dunno, like there was this one time, he was passed out on the floor of his room on the meteor, and he was snoring and shivering. You were still wearing that stupid you mean fabulous as shit cape, and you didn't have any blankets so…

You laid down next to him, and wrapped it around the both of you. And then somehow you drifted off listening to him, and when you woke up, he was totally all the way _snuggled_ against you, and one arm was draped over his torso, rising and falling with his chest. You had been fairly certain that when he slept, he was basically always loud. He was making like no noise, you just didn't even know, except that you closed your eyes again, and didn't move for another few hours. After the incident, however, the two of you apparently had an unspoken agreement to not say a single syllable about it.

He was smart, a lot of people missed that much. You're serious about that, too. As mentioned before, oblivious. Sort of, at least. Well, he spent a bunch of time staring up at the clouds and being a dumbass in general, so you guess he really is an oblivious fucker. Maybe you're just not as subtle as you'd like to think. You don't remember many times slipping up, really. Only like six or fifteen or well shit this is obvious times. Asscracker, you two flirted (as only bros! Bros can do that shit whenever they want because God damn they're cool like that!) _all the fuckin time._

The guy was a sap when you got down to it, and the whole reason you actually sit through shitty romance movies with him is to see that dreamy expression on his face and watch him gush over all of the stupidest things. Like all of these ornate proposals and heroes kissing their boob-heavy girlfriends, and Nic Cage. Gog, that isn't even cool. That's terrible. You don't mind too much, because it's Egbert.

And God damn if he wasn't pretty. You're serious, he had this glow to him, this neon and chrome sign; he lit up like a Vegas strip club, and just from how happy he is most of the time. It leaks out of him and makes everything else dim in comparison, it makes his eyes and his skin and his hair and stupid adorable overbite shine. His hair is totally impossible. You inwardly grin at the thought, and it's reflected to your actual face as a slight smirk. All of his stupid quirks are pretty hot. Though you're biased, you will admit.

You don't really mind much of anything he does. Because he's John. You don't care that he's an asshole, that he's miles away from any non-platonic relationship with you (you think), that he's awkward and has terrible taste in movies. Basically everything. Maybe someday you'll grow a pair and give it to him straight. Well, give it to him totally gay. Wait, no, oh seriously shut the fuck up, it's not even funny, is that the best you can do?

Your name is Dave Strider, and you have it bad.


End file.
